


Rejection

by MeltedFlames



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-27 20:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18746752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeltedFlames/pseuds/MeltedFlames
Summary: Gendry (with the help of Davos) and Arya reflect back on her rejection of his proposal and what it might mean for their futures.





	1. Gendry

Rejection

_Part I: Gendry  
_

  
_“That’s not me.”_  
  
What the fuck was that supposed to mean?  
  
Gendry slammed a hammer into the sword he was shaping. They didn’t need any new weapons - between the men they had lost and the thousands of salvageable ancient blades discarded when the wights fell, they really wouldn’t need to make weapons for years. Then again, he knew he wasn’t doing this for Winterfell or for Daenerys’ soldiers; he was doing this because it was all he knew.  
  
The metal glowed a hot reddish orange as he removed it from the forge again and focused on carving a detail down the middle. Each smack of his hammer upon the hot metal helped cool the burning lump that had been sitting in his throat since leaving Arya to shoot her damn arrows. He had been here for over an hour now, ignoring the sounds of celebration outside as he smithed.  
  
What the fuck had gone wrong? Everything had seemed so impossibly right - they had slept together, he had somehow survived that battle, she had killed the bloody night king, and then Daenerys had legitimized him completely unexpectedly. But none of it was enough for Arya.  
  
Bitterness crept up from his gut into the pain in his throat as he plunged the blade into water.  
  
What had she wanted from him? Gendry wasn’t sure how he could possibly be any more obvious about his feelings. He told her he loved her; he told her he needed her to make sense of all of this. Back when he had decided to stay with the Brotherhood, he had reminded her that he couldn’t be her equal. He couldn’t follow her to Winterfell because of his status, he couldn’t make swords for Robb because he’d just be another lowborn bastard boy. She was so young back then, too young for him to really consider in any way but as a friend, but some part of him hoped she’d stay with the Brotherhood - that she’d stay with him. It didn’t escape Gendry that she was the only one to fight for him when they sold him off to the Red Woman, the only one to see his worth. Now the gods had brought them together again in the most unlikely of circumstances, they had granted him a last name and a castle, but she wanted no part of it.  
  
Gendry began heating and shaping another sheet of metal. He still couldn’t get her response out of his head. He had been worried about asking her - afraid that she might say she wanted someone better established who knew something about politics and running an entire territory. When she had bent down to his level and grabbed his face tenderly, he was certain she’d say yes. She had kissed him with more emotion than they’d exchanged the entire night they had lain together, and he was suddenly convinced they’d be okay.  
  
The second she mentioned other women, he knew. He considered offering her something else, telling her he didn’t need her to be a lady. If she wasn’t interested in the traditional sense, she could run the castle and domain, he would make sure she’d be the one to answer to their people’s concerns and to represent them at gathering in Kings Landing. Do lords and ladies even gather in Kings Landing? He was pretty sure he’d seen them do so at some point, though he didn’t really know. Either way, he didn’t need Arya to be some pristine woman dressed in silks and sewing sigils, he just needed her by his side. But, words had never come easily to Gendry. He willed himself to speak, to take the blow she had dealt him and turn it into something malleable like he’d fix an over-bent blade, but the words wouldn’t come. Each second of her shooting arrows and avoiding his eye felt like a lifetime until he and the growing pit in his gut turned and found the forge.  
  
“You’re the new Lord of the Stormlands and I find you in the smithy?”  
  
Davos stabilized himself against the door before walking over to the large working counter by the forge. He seemed a little drunk and carried two flasks of ale with him.  
  
Gendry didn’t respond; he didn’t need to be reminded of his newly gifted title. It didn’t matter, anyways, he was still useless at anything that wasn’t the shaping or swinging of metal.  
  
Davos slid one of the mugs of ale his way, but he didn’t acknowledge it. His head had only just stopped swimming from the many drinks he had gulped down at the feast - another would bring him back.  
  
“You don’t seem very happy for a newly legitimized lord,” Davos said.  
  
“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” He swung the small hammer and ignored the sparks flying towards his eyes and arms.  
  
“It can get tedious later in life, but you should still be in the fun stage. It’s all women and free castles for now.” Davos smiled as he spoke, taking another drink of his own ale. “I’d guess there are a few dozen women out there who are ready to fight each other at the thought of getting to this new Baratheon lord first.”  
  
Gendry had no real response. He moved the metal to an anvil and continued thinning it. He didn’t want to think about those women.  
  
“The Stormlands are quite open minded,” the older man continued, “They had no issue with your uncle Renly’s lifestyle so long as he had a wife for an heir.”  
  
Gendry looked at him with confusion before remembering the rumors about Renly preferring men to women. “It’s not that,” he answered quickly.  
  
Davos sighed and pulled up a bench to sit on.  
  
“There have been rumors, you know. Rumors of a Stark sister coming to the forge more than she ought to.”  
  
Gendry stopped hammering the metal but didn’t look back to see Ser Davos’ face. He didn’t need to see another person disapproving of his actions.  
  
“I’d imagine the North would be quite pleased to see an alliance with the Stormlands.” Gendry still didn’t look at him as he turned and laid the blade down back by the forge. “And Lady Sansa looked quite impressed with your new title.”  
  
“I’ve never spoken with Lady Stark,” Gendry finally replied. He could imagine Arya laughing at this, and that only made him angrier.  
  
Davos drank from his cup again. “Ah. That makes more sense. I don’t know Lady Arya, but -“ Gendry didn’t hear the rest of his sentence. Just the words “Lady Arya” filled him with shame. It sounded so absurd - how could he possibly have thought she would want that?  
  
“You made her weapon?” He finally turned to face Davos, though he didn’t step any closer. Weapons seemed a safer topic. He nodded curtly. “That was some spear. And she did real damage with it - I watched her take down dozens of those things in a minute up on the ramparts. She was an artist.” Gendry cursed himself as he felt the corners of his mouth tug up into an unwanted smile. He already knew she was a good fighter, but he wished he had seen it for himself. “And the killer of the Night King at that. The two of you would be quite a pairing - a warrior and a blacksmith. It’s poetic, in a strange, violent sort of way.”  
  
“It’s not happening.” His words came out more harshly than he intended; saying it aloud was almost as painful as her rejection itself.  
  
Ser Davos sighed and stared softly at Gendry for a moment.  
  
“I originally came here to congratulate you and answer any questions about being a lord from Fleabottom, but I think this takes precedence. Have a seat.” Gendry felt like a child again as he forced his feet to take him to the bench and sat awkwardly an arm’s length from Davos. “Let’s start with the easy parts. You two have actually spoken, I take it?”  
  
Gendry willed himself not to roll his eyes. “Technically I’ve known her longer than I’ve known you,” he replied, “Though we skipped a few years in between. We were in the same group that left Kingslanding after her father was killed.” Davos looked like he was thinking about this in detail and Gendry realized most people didn’t even know that portion of Arya’s journey. As many questions as he still had for her, everyone else must have double.  
  
“So when the Red Woman took you, she was there?”  
  
Gendry nodded. “Arya hated her - I wish I had listened. She wanted to kill that witch rather than let her take me.”  
  
Davos chuckled lightly, “Anyone who wants to kill her is good in my books.”  
  
Gendry found himself telling Davos more than he had ever said to anyone about his life. He told of knowing Arya wasn’t Arry, of learning she was highborn, and of her offer to be his family. He wondered if she had felt the way he did now back when he told her he was staying with the Brotherhood. He had gotten to the portion of the story now where Davos came in, after Melisandre had brought him to Dragonstone and leeched him for her blood magic, and he wasn’t sure if he should stop or keep going. His voice paused and he looked to the man for guidance on whether he should continue his tale.  
  
“Did you see her in Kings Landing?” Gendry shook his head.  
  
“I never really knew what happened to her. Sometimes I’d ask the master smiths about the Starks, but no one seemed to even know there was an Arya Stark. She wanted to go to her brother, Robb I think it was, for a wedding in the Riverlands. For a while I thought that was where she’d met her end.”  
  
“You didn’t mention any of this to Jon beyond the wall, did you?”  
  
“No. It didn’t seem proper. He might be a bastard in name, but Jon is still highborn. It would be hard to explain wandering the woods with his sister and another random runaway. Besides, I didn’t think she was alive until Jon mentioned her on the trip back.” Davos nodded in agreement.  
  
“And when did you see her here?”  
  
“The third day after we had arrived, when she came to the forge to ask for that spear. I tried to find her before then but there was too much to do with the dragonglass. When I saw her she was so different, but so much the same Arya from the road,” he was starting to sound like a fool again. Everyone was different and the same, it was a dumb description but he couldn’t do any better, “She just kept looking at me as if…” he couldn’t finish the sentence. Ser Davos may be the closest person he had here now, but even he didn’t need to hear about the raw desire Arya had projected without saying a word.  “Anyways, she came back a few times. She probably could have just sent someone for it, but she always came herself.” He wasn’t sure if he should mention that they had slept together before the battle. It wasn’t exactly a tale of grand romance, though Gendry still was sure she had presented it as roughly as possible in a type of emotional self-defense.  
  
“And that was it - you gave her the weapon and haven’t seen her since?” Their eyes met and Davos instantly understood. He took a deep sip from his ale and nodded awkwardly.  
  
“When was that?”  
  
“The night before the battle.” It dawned on him that the battle had only taken place the night before, though it felt like whole seasons had passed. “I saw her again after, while a medic stitched up my shoulder, but we didn’t do any of that.”  
  
“Did she say anything to you?”  
  
“Not then, we just sort of shared a look. This sounds stupid.”  
  
“It doesn’t. A look can say quite a lot, especially in a room of other people.” Gendry nodded. That look had said a lot. It had shown him that she had worried about him, that she was okay, that she was glad he was okay.  
  
“I didn’t see her at the feast.”  
  
“She wasn’t there. I don’t think she likes the attention. I was actually trying to find her when the Dragon Qu-” he corrected himself mid-sentence, “the queen, stopped me.”  
  
“Did you?” Gendry cocked his head to the right in confusion. “Find her?” Davos seemed intrigued with the story. This was the part he didn’t want to tell him, the part from just hours ago.  
  
“She was practicing her bow work,” Gendry replied. He heard the way his voice trailed off and knew he’d make a mess of the explanation. “As soon as the queen made me ‘Lord Baratheon,’” he mocked the title with a lilting tone, “I knew I had my chance. I - I did everything they tell you to do. I said everything you’re supposed to say to the woman you love.” He could hear his voice breaking in the second ‘everything’ and barely whispered the final word. Davos’ face softened and Gendry felt a strange flash of anger that made him want to slap that look of pity off the older man’s face.  
  
“I told her she was beautiful, that I loved her, that I didn’t know how in the seven hells I’d ever be a lord, and I told her she was all that mattered. I asked her to marry me and to be the lady of Storm’s End.” Davos’ eyes glistened a bit; Gendry felt better knowing he wasn’t the only emotional one.  
  
“Seeing as you’re sitting in a forge and not off with her in some dark corner, I’m guessing that didn’t go so well.”  
  
Gendry’s eyes were glistening now too, and he hated it. He desperately wanted to get up and forge more steel until his eyes were dry or at least burning from the smoke rather than tears.  
  
“She doesn’t want to be with me,” he mumbled. It hurt just as much to speak as it did to think and hear.  
  
“She sounds quite harsh,” Ser Davos’ voice was the same as it had been when he tried to console Gendry back in the dungeons of Dragon Stone.  
  
“She didn’t say it like that,” Gendry defended quickly, unsure why he felt so protective of the woman who had just crushed his heart.  
  
“How did she say it, then? Women are complicated, Northern ones doubly so.”  
  
“She congratulated me on my title first, then when I asked her she told me I’d make a great lord and that any woman would be lucky to have me, but that she’s not a lady. She never has been - it wasn’t her.” Davos nodded and pushed Gendry’s ale towards him again. He took a gulp to push down the pain that still hadn’t left his throat.  
  
“Did she do anything? Did she move towards you or nod or cry?” Gods, women were complicated. Were you supposed to watch their every move to know what they meant?  
  
“She put down the bow when I first talked to her, and later she kissed me. Then she went back to shooting.”  
  
“She kissed you before or after you asked her?”  
  
“Both. Well, no. I kissed her first, before I asked, then she crouched down to meet my face after I had knelt and kissed me. Three times… I was so certain that meant she agreed.” He swallowed another mouthful of ale.  
  
“And then she just fired arrows?”  
  
“Until I left, at least, yeah.” Davos inhaled sharply as he raised his brows and nodded. A heavy quiet settled around them as he considered what he had just heard.  
  
“That hardly sounds like a ‘no,’ lad,” Gendry felt the anxiety in his eyes as he looked towards Ser Davos. “Give her time. These are strange times we live in. You proposed to her within minutes of being legitimized, not even a day after she killed the Night King himself. Let her think and calm down a bit, then seek her out.”

  
Gendry nodded. He didn’t want to hope again, not if she was going to reject him just as she had earlier. Davos wasn’t done with the subject; Gendry wished they could just sit in silence.  
  
“Everything I’ve heard about Arya Stark suggests she is determinedly unladylike. Maybe leave that bit out next time you see her.”  
  
Their eyes met again. Davos didn’t know Arya - Gendry wondered if they had ever spoken beyond the confines of battle planning - but even he knew better than the mad request Gendry had rambled as a proposal.  
  
“They all say they don’t want to be ladies,” he said, thinking out loud as he spoke the words. He had learned this all before, both from men’s warnings and tales of heartbreak and his own first experience with love. That had been different, but it had still pained him despite the brevity. “But they still dream about living off in some castle with a lord somewhere. Somehow I actually think she liked me better as a smith.”  He looked off at a group loudly walking by door to the forge as he tried not to think about the fact his sudden elevation had cost him the woman he loved.  
  
Davos placed his gloved hand over Gendry’s. “You deserve what you were gifted tonight. You may look like a Baratheon, but you don’t act like one. That’s a good thing. You think realistically and you feel more than Stannis or Renly ever did. No one was more proud to see you acknowledged tonight than I was.” Gendry made eye contact despite his insecurity. He was still a lowborn bastard at heart and couldn’t help but feel this had all been some massive mistake. “If you want this, don’t give it up for a woman. There are more women out there, but you are the only Baratheon.”  
  
He couldn’t help but disagree. There may be many women, but there was only one Arya.


	2. Arya

_Part II: Arya_

 

Arya shot arrows until her gloves were worn; her fingers cramped up and forced themselves straight, unwilling to knock back or pluck the string. She yearned for something else to practice - if only someone was awake and willing to spar. Of course, no one was. Everyone else was drunk and celebrating, it seemed. She had told Gendry she was celebrating too, though that required a specific definition more along the lines of ‘acknowledging a win but not letting one’s guard down.’  
  
Arya sighed and collected the arrows she had fired. The canvas target was a wreck of many small holes torn into one until only the bad shots farther from the center stood out. She studied the fabric for a moment, trying not to be melodramatic as she thought of how it might reflect her own situation - small individual points of damage congealing and cumulating into one massive, irreparable tear.  
  
Her grey eyes found the place Gendry had knelt hours ago, the spot she had avoided since his proposal. What was he thinking, asking her something like that? She knew he was drunk - the scent of spilled ale wafted from him when he approached her and his kisses had tasted of tannin and wine.  
  
Drunk Gendry was endearing but selfish, she determined. His words were pure and his intentions good, but he did not think. She wondered if it was unfair to consider if that he had never enjoyed thinking in all their time together. It didn’t seem inaccurate, he was a man of action but not of analysis. It seemed the only time Gendry thought things through was to determine the length and edge of a blade, to rationalize the ratio of handle to axe. or how much dragonglass he’d need to create weapons for their battle against the dead. He did not use logic in interactions with others - she had seen that with the Hound, who he let pour out abrasive words without ever seeming to realize that the older man was trying to intimidate him; she saw it with his new appointment, too. He should have been thinking about rallying his forces and drawing them south to aid in the fight to remove Cersei, not about her.  
  
In theory, Arya could comprehend why he had done it. His discomfort with the class distance between them had been obvious since the moment he had discovered she was Arya Stark. Between the emotional high of his sudden legitimization as the heir to a major house, the heavy-handed flow of drink, and the simple fact that they were alive after a fight that had seemed utterly hopeless, Arya understood the motivation. It was the execution that was all wrong.  
  
In truth, had this happened a year ago, she likely would have agreed. She wouldn’t have cared about the implications of his statement - she would have assumed they’d find a way to allow her to run the region while he did whatever it was he would do. But he had asked her now, after she had avenged the deaths of her mother and brother with acts arguably as brutal as their own endings; he had asked her hours after she had killed a literal embodiment of death after nearly meeting her demise. Arya was not going to lie to herself for anyone. Not even if she wanted to.  
  
Gendry always seemed different. While other men saw her as a harmless, small woman, she thought he saw her as she was. He had felt her scars, looked into her eyes, made her weapons - but he was no different. He did not see her as she truly was.  
  
That thought tore at her as much as refusing him had.  
  
She had always thought Gendry was better; still a man, but superior to the rest. Where others overestimated their strength, Gendry underestimated his own; where the rest of them thought they knew all the secrets to ruling, Gendry openly admitted his complete lack of preparedness. But ultimately he had proven the same - he saw her, and all women, she resigned, as a prize. Despite the flashes of excitement that lit up his face when she threw knives in the forge and the way he had handcrafted her spear, he did not see Arya Stark the warrior, only Arya Stark the lady.  
  
She blinked tears from her eyes and became No One again as she inhaled a frustratingly inconsistent breath. The air around her stank of sweat and mead and sex; she wished it would smell like snow and blood again.  
  
“Be the lady of Storm’s End.” The words crashed back into her mind as she looked again at where they had kissed. Arya knew the kiss had mislead him but she had needed time to process what was happening. Those kisses had been so glorious, saying so much more than she could with words alone. She paused now as she replayed them in her head. It was the last time she’d ever kiss him, of that she was certain.  
  
Gendry was infinitely better off without her; she wasn’t capable of the love and support he needed. He deserved his castle and his perfect wife, someone to mend his clothes lovingly and raise little black-haired babes that nipped at their heels. Pups nip, babies don’t, she reminded herself. She couldn’t even describe babies accurately in her mind - she’d never be a doting mother who merrily reestablished his line and warmed his bed while he went off to battle.  
  
She couldn’t be what he needed; she likely couldn’t be anyone at all.  
  
There was little chance Arya would survive the next few months. What was the use in thinking about what she could or couldn’t give a man she wouldn’t be with when her remaining days were decreasing faster than leaves after the first killing frost? She could make no promises. Gendry would make it out of this war with a new lordship and tens of thousands of Bannerman; Arya would die in its midst. She had no doubt her list would be her demise. Even she couldn’t stroll into King’s Landing, kill the queen, and live to tell the tale.  
  
Feeling hollow as she imagined the many ways she may die in the coming weeks, Arya returned the arrows to their quiver and looped her arm under the bow. She snuck past the courtyards around the inner walls of the barbican and hoisted herself into an open window rather than going through the door. It was easier to avoid attention this way.  
  
The halls were dark and empty as she silently padded up the stairs and around two turns of the hall until she reached her old room. It no longer felt like hers now, just a shell of wood and furniture that had once been her only private space. She laid the bow upon a table and rested the quiver beside it. She stood there, unsure of what to do even in this small space, until she found herself wandering to a small square mirror hanging on the wall. Arya had never enjoyed looking in it - she was never particularly pleased with what it showed her - but now it felt like her best option to find some direction.  
  
The face that stared back at her was gruesome and damaged. The gash where she had smacked her head when escaping wights the night before was inflamed to a shocking shade of magenta. Bruising bloomed around it, curving down to her cheek to fan into a hideous yellowing brown around her eye. Gendry must have been drunker than she realized to call her beautiful.  
  
Arya stepped away from the mirror and sighed. She longed for a good book to occupy her mind while she kept away from the festivities outside. She might have considered heading towards the library to peruse the titles had more time passed since she was terrified for her life there just the night before. Besides, there was little doubt it was littered with couples stealing away to fuck in the privacy between shelves. She almost wished she was one of them. Until Gendry’s ill-considered proposal, she had been sure she’d spend her night shut in this very room, naked and blissful as they explored one another until the sun rose. This time there would have been no horns and battles to wake them - they could sleep until their minds or desires caused them to stir. Maybe they would have spent the entire next day in bed. But he had shattered that illusion with a simple suggestion.    
  
She hoped he was alright. He had looked so defeated when she responded, so utterly heartbroken. Arya couldn’t stand seeing him that way. She had to turn and focus on sending each arrow into the bullseye, lest her heart break with his.  
  
Where was he now? Drinking with the others, she supposed. Maybe he had already found a new woman to be his lady. She had seen the way they looked at him, oblivious as he seemed to be. Their heavy-lidded eyes batted and their cheeks flushed as they passed; sometimes they giggled and whispered to one another while they drank in his muscular frame and sharp cheekbones. Arya hated girls like that, girls who acted useless and obsessed over men. They’d be better off with swords in their hands, she thought.  
  
She pushed aside the image of Gendry surrounded by beautiful women, actually beautiful ones, not cold, bruised little killers. It was illogical to feel the way she did considering the fact she had just been reminding herself that she couldn’t be with him. Still, the thought of other women with their hands on his body made her queasy.  
  
Arya would see for herself how he dealt with rejection.  
  
She left her room and returned to slink through the courtyards. Staying in the shadows, she hunted for familiar faces and voices. She saw Ser Brienne of Tarth’s squire with a woman on each arm, whispering to them with a smirk; to the West wall stood two men so drunk they had to lean on one another as they made water; a woman to her left was vomitting from too much drink. She felt her upper lip turn up in disgust at the brash scene playing out before her.  
  
The face she sought was not among them, so she turned a corner to look elsewhere. A man and a woman were arguing loudly under the arch nearest her. Beside the small sapling under the east window, two Knights of the Vale sloppily flailed their fists at one another, neither actually connecting. Still no sign of Gendry.  
  
She thought for a moment that he may have already found a woman for the night. Mayhaps he was already forgetting her with someone else. Arya didn’t like the emotions she had to push back into her gut at the mental image.  
  
She continued through the courts of the castle silently. A large fire bathed the path to her right in a glowing amber. Arya realized this was the forge - someone was smithing.  
  
This was the first time she had seen the forge without dozens of workers and its unexpected loneliness struck her like a cold gust of wind. She didn’t hear hammering or hissing metal, just voices speaking lowly.  
  
Arya carefully peered into the building, careful to keep most of her face hidden by the door. Gendry was speaking to Davos about something she couldn’t quite hear. He looked like himself again, his sooty face reddened by the heat of the flames. This was how she liked him best - vibrant and messy. He looked emotional, throwing his hands about dramatically as he spoke to the older man. She wanted to hear what he was saying, but couldn’t make out the words over the roar of the fire and the nearby crowds. She took a step into the building and hid herself in the shadows as best she could.  
  
She still couldn’t quite hear what he was saying, but she had a feeling she was part of the discussion. The shouting man a few meters to her left walked away and she could finally hear him.  
  
“Somehow I actually think she liked me more as a smith.” His eyes shone with sadness again as he looked to Ser Davos for a response, then gazed forward in resignation. She felt herself leaning towards them and realized she was breathing louder than she should. Leaping back towards the door, she managed to shuffle behind a group as she saw Gendry look to the door.  
  
Arya got herself to a vacant corner and leaned against the cold stone wall. This was all so pedantic and immature. She had killed the Night King herself just the night prior, and now she was gasping while listening in on a boy in the forge - it was ludicrous.  
  
Ludicrous or not, the sadness on his face twisted in her stomach just as painfully as the Waif’s knife had back in Braavos. This was why she couldn’t say yes. These emotions were distracting - how would she ever take down Cersei and the Mountain if all she could think of was Gendry and his feelings?  
  
It was late now, nearing dawn, but still dark. Most of the merrymakers had found their way to the nearest horizontal surfaces to sleep off the effects of their drinks, and the courtyard was quieting down. She stayed in the shadows as she walked out towards the stables. Jon’s direwolf laid across from the horse he preferred.  
  
“Ghost,” Arya said with a smile. He cocked his head up and lifted his healthy ear at his name.

  
She approached him and extended a hand before petting him. The poor wolf had taken quite a beating in the battle; Arya wished she had a salve to put on his wounds. She tangled her fingers in his thick white fur around his neck and pressed her face into it for a moment, wishing it was Nymeria She pulled away as soon as the realization hit her, but Ghost didn’t seem to mind. She pet him again and made a mental note to nick some meat from the kitchens to bring him tomorrow. Ghost nuzzled her hand when she stopped petting him. She found herself smiling again as she smoothed the hair atop his massive head.  
  
Petting Ghost did something to relax her, and soon she finally felt able to return to her room and get a few hours sleep before their battle planning meeting in the morn.  
  
When she returned to her room, Arya locked the door and rinsed her face in the now icy bucket of water that had been laid by the door. She removed her cloak and clothing, finding a warm wool nightshirt to wear their place before blowing out all but one candle and curling up between furs.  
  
A deep sorrow that had been waiting in her bones woke from its hibernation and shook itself out into her chest. It wasn’t the same type of dismay she felt when she had lost her father, but surely it must be a distant relative. She repeated her list silently and tried her best to rinse away the sadness with determination and revenge; at best it only took the edge off.  
  
Arya closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep, trying her hardest to pretend she didn’t hope she fell into vivid dreams about wandering forests with a certain blacksmith and her old direwolf.

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter will be Arya's take on what happened.
> 
> I'm not giving up hope that they'll work their shit out - warriors need supportive love too!


End file.
